


played it (all wrong)

by wednesday



Series: WDLF wednesday [11]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26368105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier fuck and then manage to slightly fuck it up.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: WDLF wednesday [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472078
Comments: 11
Kudos: 284
Collections: We Die Like Fen 4: We Lived to Die Afen





	played it (all wrong)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mornelithe_falconsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mornelithe_falconsbane/gifts).



He shouldn’t give in. He knows it and he’s not even sure Jaskier expects it to work, but fuck. Geralt is tired and Jaskier has been propositioning him in ways he must think are subtle, but almost make Geralt break out in laughter every time. What’s not funny at all is how well it still works. Even without a drop of subtlety about him, Jaskier must know what he’s doing better than Geralt thought him capable of. Because Geralt can’t stop fucking thinking about it. Can’t stop thinking about fucking. 

And now he’s slightly drunk, tired and even more tired of resisting. So he gives in. 

In their room Jaskier makes some inane comment about getting Geralt’s shirt off. Geralt does take his shirt off, throws it across the room and looks at Jaskier pointedly. 

Jaskier looks back at him, a bright flush rising on his cheeks, spreading down his neck and what little of his chest is visible where the top of his doublet and shirt hangs open. For a moment he looks surprised, almost incredulous, like he really hasn’t been expecting his excessively obvious approach to work. Then his expression changes into a smile that can’t really be called anything else than lewd. Geralt tilts his head to the side where the bed is without looking away from Jaskier’s far too satisfied face. 

It’s enough to get Jaskier moving, to get him on the bed and within Geralt’s reach. And when Jaskier opens his mouth, Geralt pulls him over by the back of his neck and shuts him up before he can say anything to ruin the mood. Not that there’s much that could do it, not after having admitted to being susceptible to incredibly bad innuendos. Still, he’d rather not fucking talk about it when there are better things to do. 

They’ve seen each other naked plenty of times before, but it’s never been like this — Geralt has never been allowed to touch and to _look_ ; it has never been _for him_. And it is now, so he takes and takes and takes, runs his hands over every inch of Jaskier’s body. 

He wants to put his mouth everywhere he’s touched, everywhere, but he doesn’t want to stop kissing Jaskier and doesn’t want to give him the chance to start talking. They can’t stay as they are forever, though, and Geralt feels urgency in the way Jaskier arches against him, clutches at Geralt’s shoulders and waist and hips. So Geralt moves, breaks the kiss and puts his mouth high on Jaskier’s thigh instead and bites lightly, then soothes the skin with his lips. When Jaskier puts his hands on Geralt’s head, first carefully and then when Geralt doesn’t protest more firmly, Geralt lets himself be guided up and to the side. Jaskier does it just slowly enough that Geralt thinks he doesn’t believe Geralt will let him. Or doesn’t believe Geralt will suck his cock. 

Geralt does, though, because he really fucking wants to. He licks it to get it wet, then does it some more to get Jaskier to make more of the wordlessly pleading sounds that are spilling from his lips. Jaskier is still too careful, too polite to make Geralt do what he wants, so Geralt takes pity on him and wraps his lips around Jaskier’s cock. That finally makes Jaskier’s fingers in Geralt’s hair tense, grip it properly, but he doesn’t use that hold to push Geralt’s head down, and despite the way his hips keep twitching, he doesn’t thrust up either, so Geralt goes very slow. Slides down so languidly he makes himself impatient. 

He can’t even tell if it’s working, if it’s making Jaskier just as impatient and more, or if maybe Jaskier likes it slow. Then the head of Jaskier’s cock hits the back of Geralt’s throat and Jaskier makes a sound, and Geralt takes it deeper, swallows it down until he can’t go any lower, until his lips are pressed to the very base of Jaskier’s cock. This at least is definitely working for Jaskier — he makes a wounded sound and goes tense, muscles trembling with the effort it takes to restrain himself. And then that effort ends up not being enough, and he thrusts up against Geralt’s face where it’s already pressed to his abs. 

“Fuck, sorry—” 

Geralt groans and feels the very beginning of a burn in his throat. The lack of air is barely noticeable, but it’s already making his whole body feel light and his cock ache. He eases back, still slow, but now because he wants that feeling to last. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and then, “please, Geralt.” Then far too carefully he thrusts his cock deeper into Geralt’s throat again. Geralt takes it, swallows around him. Geralt looks up and fuck, Jaskier looks wrecked already—his skin flushed, mouth bitten red and eyes large and dark. He’s staring at Geralt, and when Geralt swallows around him again, Jaskier’s eyes fall shut. 

Fuck, Jaskier thrusts again with a strangled moan, and then keeps thrusting, pushing his cock into Geralt’s throat. His grip on Geralt’s hair tightens and Geralt groans again and reaches for his own cock, starts stroking it in time with Jaskier’s thrusts. He’d planned to fuck Jaskier, but he’s already close, the way Jaskier is finally fucking his mouth is getting him off so fast it’s making him lightheaded. 

The scent of lust and sweat and Jaskier all around them is strong enough to drown out everything else. Geralt’s heard Jaskier fuck enough times through the thin walls of cheap taverns that he’s memorized the sounds Jaskier makes, and he can tell just by the way Jaskier’s breath hitches, the way his voice breaks on a moan that he’s close as well. 

He pulls Geralt’s hair, and it makes Geralt groan and speed up his strokes. The vibrations of his throat make Jaskier whine desperately, louder than Geralt’s ever heard him do for anyone else, and then pull even harder on Geralt’s hair—and for a moment it feels like they’re going to keep firing each other up endlessly like that. 

It can’t last, and fuck, Geralt should have thought of that, should have tried to ease into it to pace them, they could have gone all night. Half the night at least. But it’s too late, Geralt feels jolts of pleasure melt along his spine, and with a low sound comes all over his own hand and the sheets. It takes a few more thrusts and Jaskier follows him, spills inside Geralt’s mouth and down his throat. Geralt swallows as much as he can and then pulls back when Jaskier’s wordless sounds turn towards pained. 

Geralt moves just enough to collapse at Jaskier’s side. He doesn’t bother cleaning off the spit and come off his face. It feels right—the scent of him and Jaskier and sex all mixed together and smeared across Geralt’s mouth, his cheeks. He breathes, hears the racing beat of Jaskier’s heart and thinks he could get hard again, easily. 

He’s tired though, so he keeps his eyes closed and before he can decide on anything, falls into sleep. 

The first thing Geralt sees when he wakes up is Jaskier, sitting on the edge of the bed. Probably what woke him up. Geralt wants to reach out and pull him back, push him down into the sheets and fuck him, or maybe let him fuck Geralt again. Slower this time, longer. 

But then Jaskier gets up, steps away from the bed and out of reach. 

Geralt props himself up on his elbows and watches him get dressed in silence and feels too awake for it. Jaskier doesn’t take as much time getting ready as he likes to do when they’re at an inn. Like he wants to get away faster. When he’s done, and already has one hand on the door, he notices Geralt’s awake and freezes. 

“Ah, Geralt! Here you are… awake,” he trails off. Then with a fresh wave of liveliness smiles and keeps talking. “And it’s a lovely morning! So I’m off to look for some much needed sustenance. You should eat too! When you get around to it, I mean. Well! Have a lovely morning!” And with another smile and without waiting for any kind of answer from Geralt, he leaves the room rather hastily and closes the door. 

Geralt falls back down on the bed and closes his eyes. Exhales slowly. 

He can’t tell if that just now was Jaskier being awkward, or if it was Jaskier escaping because he expected Geralt to be strange about last night. He can’t decide which of the two would be worse, either. He’s really glad he didn’t try to pull Jaskier back into the bed, at least. It already feels like he’s taken a dozen wrong steps at once somewhere; that would have made everything so much worse. 

The bed still smells of sex, as does everything in it, Geralt included. 

“Fuck.” 

Starting the day with more Temerian rye suddenly seems like a good fucking idea, and then he remembers that’s what got him here in the first place. 

When he’s done feeling sorry for himself, Geralt gets up and scrubs his face and then the rest of him clean with lukewarm water. It’s not enough—he can’t smell anything else for the rest of the day. It’s maddening and the scent makes him forget. 

He keeps almost reaching for Jaskier, almost pulling him closer. It’s never been a problem before, but suddenly he feels like he should be allowed, and has to remind himself constantly that he isn’t. 

On top of that, Jaskier looks at Geralt with badly hidden disappointment every time it happens, every time he notices Geralt standing too close before he remembers to step back, every time Geralt’s fingers almost touch him before he remembers not to. 

Like he fucking expects better from Geralt. It’s infuriating. 

By the evening of the second day Geralt feels absolutely done with everything. When Jaskier tries to wheedle his way into following Geralt on the hunt using that cheerful, nothing–has–changed voice, Geralt shouts at him to stay the fuck out of his way and stalks away. At least he’s about to have the chance to take his frustration out by killing a pack of ghouls. He can’t remember if he’s ever regretted fucking anyone more than he regrets fucking Jaskier. 

By the time he’s done with the ghouls, it’s late and he’s cold and covered in grave mud. The edge of his anger has bled away and left him feeling mostly just miserable. 

When he gets to their room, he’s too intent on getting in the bath as soon as possible to care that Jaskier is in the room as well. He undresses silently and with a sigh sinks into the water. It’s still hot enough to be pleasant, and Geralt sits back and soaks up the warmth. 

He’s not paying attention, so the first touch startles him. Geralt tenses, but Jaskier keeps touching him, brushing mud and debris out of his hair and rinsing it clean. Geralt suffers it for a minute, but he’s getting hard already. It’s going to have to be either jerk off with Jaskier right there in the room, or wait it out and embrace the frustration, and Geralt’s not ready for those kinds of miserable right now. 

He catches Jaskier’s wrist with his hand and growls. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, but his tone is too sharp, a challenge. Fuck, he must still be angry about earlier. 

“Unfair,” Geralt says and doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t want to start shouting again, and he’d like to not be thrown out of the inn tonight. 

“Oh, do tell me, how exactly am I being unfair right now. I’d love to hear it.” Yes, Jaskier definitely sounds like he’s been simmering in his anger. There’s a strange note to it that Geralt doesn’t recognize. 

“You’re setting me up to fail,” Geralt grits out, slowly and without shouting. “You don’t need me trying to pull you into the bath to have an excuse. Say whatever you’re dying to say.” 

And Geralt expects an impressive list of complaints and all of Geralt’s failings to follow. There’s half a chance it will make his cock lose interest. 

Jaskier stays silent for a few moments and then instead of the expected argument asks carefully, “Setting you up to—fail?” 

Geralt growls again and turns sideways. Jaskier is looking at Geralt with a faint frown, expression mostly confused. He’s yet to try pulling his hand free. So Geralt pulls him closer by the wrist, so close Jaskier has to brace his free hand against Geralt’s shoulder to stop himself from falling into the water. Geralt waits for that disappointed expression, and when it doesn’t appear fast enough, he kisses Jaskier. 

And Jaskier gasps and kisses back just as ardently as two nights ago. For a minute, and then he’s pushing at Geralt’s chest and leaning away. 

“You cannot do this to me,” Jaskier says and his breaths are too fast. And yeah, that’s what Geralt expected. Fuck. 

“—playing with my heart like that, that’s just cruel of you.” 

And that… That isn’t what Geralt expected at all. He frowns and looks at Jaskier. Belatedly lets go of his wrist. For a moment that disappointed expression he’s seen too damn much these last two days flashes across Jaskier’s face again. 

Oh. Fuck. 

“You know what, I think it’s best if I go and leave you to your bath.” Jaskier steps back, and Geralt grabs his hand once again before he can get out of reach. 

“No.” 

“I— No? Okay, no,” Jaskier says. Then frowns and looks at Geralt, and some of the anger bleeds back into his voice. “What do you mean, _no_?” 

“You want to stay,” Geralt says. It seems… unlikely, but that’s the only thing that makes any sense. 

“Well, that’s hardly—” 

“I want you to stay.” That’s even easier to admit, since Geralt’s spent the last two days thinking it was something they were both already aware of. 

Jaskier looks dubious, so Geralt pulls him closer, less harshly this time, and kisses him again. “I wanted you to stay, in the morning,” he whispers against Jaskier’s lips, like a secret that isn’t secret at all. 

And when the kiss ends, Jaskier looks halfway to wrecked again—eyes wide and color high on his cheekbones. Geralt almost pulls him into the bath, but then Jaskier gets in it without being dragged. Geralt gets very hard very fast, and the night ends up being nowhere near miserable. 


End file.
